


ain't this just like the present

by feminist14er



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1747898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feminist14er/pseuds/feminist14er
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunger Games AU: she keeps seeing him at the coffee shop; he slowly weaves his way into her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't this just like the present

The first time she sees him, it’s at her favorite coffee shop. It’s one of those hipster joints, all muted colors and modern furniture. The chairs are patently uncomfortable, and when they’re taken (which is almost all the time), she ends up sitting high up on the stools at the long, communal table. She can take or leave the décor, but the coffee is the best on this side of town, and the mere smell of it is enough to send her swooning. This is where she sees him.

He’s all broad shoulders, tailored lines, and corn silk hair, and sure as shit, he’s coming for the spot across from her at the communal table. When it’s mid-morning on a weekend like this, she makes sure that she stashes her bag across the table from her. She feels the pinch of selfishness, but she rationalizes; she has her laptop out so she can grade student papers, and between her breakfast, (the shop contracts out its pastries, but they are nearly as delightful as the coffee, and she treats herself to one every time she’s there) her coffee, and the spread of her papers, she knows she needs the space (one time, she spilled her coffee on her laptop. When she took it in to be fixed, they told her all the bags of rice in the world weren’t going to save it. Apparently, the logo was the sole part of the computer that was liquid permeable, and of course the one time her computer was actually closed was the one time she had to clumsily spill her coffee).

Still, she watches him as he looks for another space in the shop, clearly noticing her bag and the way she’s staked out the end of the table. The rest of the communal table is full, and all of the other spots in the shop are taken. As is normal, it’s pouring rain outside, so the tables and chairs the shop optimistically sets up outside for short-lived sunny days of summer are unavailable to him.

Finally, he walks over to her table, looking at her with a chagrined smile. “Are you saving this spot for someone?” His voice is quiet amid the chatter of the shop, low and kind.

She sighs. She really doesn’t need to have someone across from her, even if he does his own thing and leaves her in peace. But she isn’t saving it for someone so, “No, sorry. I just spread out when I can. Let me move everything.” She slides off the tall chair, and when he moves out of her way, allowing her to drop her bag to the floor and clear some of the clutter from his space, she notices, with just a passing thought, that while he’s not tall (and she’s small herself; she must only come up to his shoulder), he has a comfortable solidity about his frame.

When she’s moved everything out of his way, she boosts herself back into her chair and returns to her grading. She’s been working as a TA for a crotchety old ecology professor on campus, and while she’s grateful for the money ( _and the tuition remission, and the experience_ , she sighs, running through her litany again), she sincerely wishes that he would get more involved in the students’ work. She’s currently grading forty papers on an invasive species of grass, and after reading twenty talking about fire suppression patterns and how this has influenced patterns of succession, she desperately wishes she had someone to share the workload with.

She rubs her forehead as she turns to the next paper, and takes a sip of her coffee. She can feel it slowly rejuvenating her after a long week of classwork, but she wishes that she could have more than coffee to sustain her. It’s been a long winter, and the constant grey of this year has been wearing on her more than usual. She grew up only a couple of hundred miles from the school, so she’s no stranger to the climate; the incessant workload has ensured, however, that she spends very little time outside. The most light she sees is from the bright desk lamp in her lab.

Still, she’s mostly enjoying her graduate work, and as she keeps reminding herself, she’s very lucky to be where she is. Sighing, she glances up to see the man across from her reading from a thick book. Seeing her look up, he lowers his book briefly to smile at her. “Sorry, I never really said thank you for making a space for me.”

She grimaces. She’s never been an incredibly outgoing person, and truth be told, her hidden rationale for always saving the seat across from her is so she doesn’t have to make small talk. She wants to be able to look out the window and watch the clouds move across the landscape without having to have a deep conversation about it. Knowing, however, how rude it would be to ignore this man’s thanks, she waves her hand and says “Oh, no trouble at all.” She manages the tiniest smile and turns back to her work. She doesn’t look up again until she sees him get up. With another small smile in her direction, he buses his cup, pulls on his coat, and walks out the door.

\--

She goes several weeks without seeing him again; she’s able to spread out, and while she’s moved on from grading to working on her own paper (technically, it’s a term paper, but she’s hoping with some fine-tuning, it might be publishable), she’s still in need of the space. She’s using her phone to look up her notes and typing frantically at her computer, and while she feels like she’s on technology overdrive, she’s also feeling like she’s got a working system. Many of her cohort have iPads, but she couldn’t stomach the cost. Fortunately, she thinks, this makes her take up less space.

It’s almost a month and a half later, and the sun is out for the first time in weeks. She’s taking a short break on a Thursday afternoon, and while she stares idly out the windows, she catches a glimpse of him right before he walks in. She looks around the shop and feels an instant sense of relief that there are fewer people here today; the communal table isn’t even full, and the only reason she’s sitting there is because she’s been there so long (and there’s so much space to spread out). She returns to her work after watching him interact with the barista. 

It’s only when he sits down diagonally across from her that she looks up, and she already knows she’s scowling. He’s certainly not in her space, and she hasn’t had to move, but she looked around before he even walked in, and there’s no reason for him to be sitting here. Sure, she could move to one of the private tables that are available today, but she was here first. There’s absolutely no reason why he should be here, rather than at one of the smaller tables. For that matter, he could sit outside; everyone in this city complains about their Vitamin D deprivation, and while it might only be 40 degrees outside, it’s still _sunny_. When he looks up at her, she tries to smooth the scowl from her face, but she knows from the look he gives her (which started out friendly, and quickly changed to something…less) that she hasn’t succeeded.

She sighs and turns back to her work, not interested in appearing available to chat. On the one hand, she wishes she didn’t come across as such a grump, but on the other hand – well, she’s always felt that resting bitch face comes in handy. Certainly he isn’t going to made idle conversation with her today, which means she’ll be able to get her work done.

Only then, she doesn’t. She’s restless with the idea that he chose to sit at this table for a reason. Does he have a blind date? Is he meeting a group of friends ( _oh please no_ , she thinks. She’ll never get her work done that way)? But he sits, just as he did last time, with a book out. It’s a different book this time, she notices, although it appears to be equally large, and undoubtedly erudite. She wonders if he’s one of those book snobs (which are so like the coffee snobs in this town) who only buys from indie bookstores and prides himself on picking what sound like the most boring books. He certainly appears to be an avid reader, because he’s read the last book apparently quite quickly.

She notices the direction of her thoughts, and makes an honest attempt to return to her work. She’s primarily interested in forest ecology, but she’s writing a paper using the same data her students were using on grassland succession. Perhaps it’s because it’s outside of her normal realm, or perhaps it’s because it’s a lovely day, but she keeps getting distracted. She looks out the window, admiring the new magnolia blossoms, with just the right hint of pink at their centers; she watches people walking past the shop, smiling and basking in the sunshine. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches the man with the corn silk hair as he reads. She realizes that he’s either skimming the book, or that he’s a naturally quick reader. He has sturdy hands, like the rest of his body; sturdy, without losing any of their deftness. She realizes she’s been watching him more directly and quickly shifts back to her computer.

She doesn’t seem him raise his eyes and smile slightly at her agitation.

After typing a few more sentences, she glances down at her watch, and sighs in frustration. She’s gotten so little accomplished, and while she doesn’t have anywhere to be, she feels the remnants of her concentration slipping away. Brushing her dark braid over her shoulder, she shuts her laptop and begins to pack up. She doesn’t look at the young man as she slips out, but if she peers back in to the coffee shop on her way to the bus stop, it’s certainly not for a last glimpse of him.

\--

She’s in her sweatpants at home, nursing a slight hangover and assessing her breakfast options when she realizes that she wants hot coffee and a cheese Danish immediately. The thought of getting dressed and putting on her heavy raincoat (it’s a deluge today, which isn’t terribly surprising for a storm in late March) is extremely unappealing, but she forces herself to take some ibuprofen, take a hearty slug of water and at least put on jeans and boots. By the time she’s braided her hair and added a scarf, she thinks she’s practically fit for public, and feels significantly less badly about being hung over.

The coffee shop is only half a mile from the bus stop, and by the time she gets off the bus, she feels grateful for the fresh air, damp or no. Normally, she’s perfectly happy to put in her headphones and take the bus; she’s an ecology student after all, and while she knows that doesn’t always lend itself to an emphasis in environmentalism, she believes that public transportation is better than driving, even if it’s not as nice as riding her bike. All the same, the smell of damp people and coats, combined with the sway of the bus has done nothing to help her head this morning. Walking briskly in the rain, she reaches the coffee shop only to realize that it’s packed. She didn’t bring work this morning, so she doesn’t really have a reason to stay, but she always has a book in her bag, and she’s be happy to sit among the aromas and read quietly while drinking from their classic ceramic mugs.

She hopes, then, that some people will have cleared out by the time she’s through ordering.

She chats with the barista; like all the others here, she is perfectly, if somewhat unusually coiffed. This particular young woman (with whom she has something of a rapport) has shaved half her head. She has a loose braid holding the remainder of her wavy blonde hair in place, and when combined with her industrial and gauges, she’s quite a sight. But her eyes and her voice are soft and unintimidating, and she is easy to talk to. With a quick smile, she passes over the coffee and Danish. The young women chat briefly, before turning away to their separate tasks.

With her long dark hair in its usual braid, she often feels she is out of place in this shop. She has no wild hairstyles, and while she has earrings in both her ears, she has no other piercings. She often looks longingly at the tattoos that adorn the coffee shop aficionados, but she keeps convincing herself that it would be a waste of money. 

As these thoughts pass through her head, she glances around, looking for a place to sit. She sees someone moving as though to get up from the communal table, and she gets ready to pounce. As they bus their dishes, she all but runs to get the spot. It wouldn’t be her usual choice; she likes the end of the table, where she only has one neighbor. Here, she’s in between two people and across from a third. There’s always a chance they’re all together, and someone had to leave early, but she wants to sit, and now. If the people around her are ruffled by her appearance, well, she doesn’t care.

It isn’t until she’s sitting down that she looks at the people around her, and realizes he’s here again. 

A slightly feeling of panic crosses her chest; it’s not that she sees him all that often, really, but just often enough that she never gets to the point of either being comfortable seeing him (like her barista acquaintance) or that she gets comfortable thinking she’ll never see him again. And today, he’s dressed especially well; she’s noticed that he’s always dressed nicely. His trousers fit him well, he wears shoes that her friends might describe as “dapper”, and he wears a button-down that fits him nicely. It’s not an uncommon sight here; many of the men she’s familiar with dress similarly, and whether it’s a local trend or a larger thing, she can’t say, but she is used to the sight of well-dressed, attractive men.

She’s not really expecting to attach those descriptors to him in her mind, however. But, as she assesses him around her mug, that’s exactly what she thinks of him. He’s added a vest today, and his trousers are a particularly nice shade and fit. It’s a weekend, so she doubts he has a meeting, but she can’t quite think why he’d be dressed up. She thinks dimly about her ratty jeans and thick rain jacket and laughs to herself that she thought she was presentable when she left the house this morning.

It isn’t until a bit later, when she’s ensconced in her book that she realizes he’s left. She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she ate her breakfast (he read the newspaper this morning, and she wondered why anyone would ever read the news on a Saturday; all of the major news reporting happens on Sunday, she thought, so why would anyone read it before then?), but for the first time since she’s seen him, they didn’t exchange glances. She slowly settled down into her own space (which became more comfortable as the two unrelated, but equally gregarious parties on either side of her cleared out). Once she started reading, she tuned out his presence, which was a welcome relief. Only now, she’s curious. Did he leave? She must have been quite absorbed if she failed to notice him leaving (although he was much quieter than the others around her, so maybe not).

Just as she’s having these thoughts, he comes out the door from where she presumes the main office is. He’s hugging the blonde barista and laughing, and she has to look away when she realizes she envies the familiarity of their embrace. Before she has the instinct to suppress the thought, it occurs to her that they could be dating ( _or they could be siblings_ , says the naïve part of her brain); they are lovely together, all shining hair and light skin. The barista is still noticeably more dramatic in her appearance, but he softens her, makes her look comfortable and approachable. He pulls away from her with a laugh, and with a light shove from her, he heads out the door. As he opens the door to head into the rain, he glances back, and their eyes meet again. There is a lingering smile in his eyes, and she finds herself offering a smile in return, in spite of herself.

\--

The next time she’s there, it’s almost the end of her term, and she is frantically making edits to the paper she’s submitting. Her professor has made some amazing suggestions, but now she’s weeding through her own edits, as well as those of one of her cohort. He’s renowned for his excellent editing, but it seems that there are hundreds of comments on each page. It’s a short article, only about five pages, but she’s still feeling like she needs to start over rather than handle every single suggestion.

It’s around this time that she realizes that a fresh cup of coffee has materialized under her elbow. As the aroma wafts towards her nose, she realizes she finished her last cup nearly two hours ago, and while it’s still early in the day, she’s exhausted. She looks up so quickly her neck hurts, and she sees him grinning at her from across the coffee shop.

This is the first time she’s seen him sitting somewhere else, and she finds that she’s surprised and thrown off.

But then he’s walking toward her, and her stomach lurches with nerves. She doesn’t make conversation easily; when she got here, it took her months to respond to the barista’s friendly inquiries with more than a “yes” or “no.” She’s only just learned her name, after all, and she’s been coming here for a year and a half. But that doesn’t keep him from making steady progress toward her, weaving his way in and out of the tables and chairs littering the floor. She thinks about ducking her head and going back to hammering on her keys, but she’s already been rude to this man, and he just bought her coffee, and even though her feminist instincts tell her she owes him nothing, she’s always been self-sufficient to a fault, and she really doesn’t want to owe this guy a favor. Plus, she must admit that she’s intrigued.

“You were looking a little stressed over here. I thought maybe some extra coffee could help with your work.” He gestures to her computer with a hand, but his eyes don’t leave hers. He’s still got that grin on his face, and while she really just wants to get on with it ( _and drink the goddamn coffee and be glad of it_ ), she can’t just let it go.

“Yeah, thanks.” She cringes at how little she can convey, but she also knows she’s trying, and that engaging with him is difficult enough, and she didn’t ask for his favor.

“Mind if I ask what you’re working on?” The smile never leaves his eyes, and she can’t decide if he’s genuinely interested in her, her work, or none of the above. Surely he wouldn’t ask unless he was interested, but she’s not sure if he’s trying to make conversation for conversation’s sake, and she just isn’t willing to do that.

“It’s just a paper for the end of term. I’m trying to get it published, so I’m a bit on a deadline.” She worries that even that is over the line and rude, but as attractive as he is, he’s honestly only making her more jumpy, and that’s making it hard to think about work, and also hard to make conversation. She’s got average self-esteem, she thinks, but her introversion makes it difficult for her to make conversation with people she doesn’t know, and when she finds them attractive, it’s only worse. 

“Ahh. Well, I certainly don’t want to interrupt if you’re busy. I wish you luck with it!” He smiles, smaller this time, and she feels badly that he feels like she’s brushing him off. She is, in a way, but almost in a way that she can’t completely help. All the same, if it gets it back to her work – he turns to go, and she breathes an inaudible sigh of relief. He hesitates for a second, and then turns back around.

“I’m Peeta, by the way. Since we’re…” he gestures vaguely, indicating the table she’s at and the shop around it.

She gives a small smile at that. He’s clearly at a loss, but trying to maintain his politeness. And to that, she can’t help by reciprocate. She extends a hand “Katniss.”

He takes her hand, his smile wider now. “It’s very nice to meet you then, Katniss.” And with that, he does walk away.

\-- 

The next time they see each other, it’s mid-summer. She’s staying over the summer term, TA-ing a summer course and conducting research in her professor’s lab. There’s some potential for her to get off campus and do some field work, and that mere suggestion of that had her willing to stay. And it’s usually nice in the summer, anyway. Cooler than most places, but certainly less rain than they usually have. Once she explained it to her sister (who had plans to study abroad over the summer anyway), she had no qualms about staying.

Because it’s the weekend, and because there’s less grading in a summer course, she’s reading a magazine instead of working when she’s at the shop. She’s been there for several hours; she spent some time at their outside tables, and when a breeze picked up, she migrated inward (ordering a second coffee and a croissant while she was at it). She’s just thinking about leaving when he walks in.

He’s less formal than she’s seen in the past, although that in no way means that he’s ill-dressed. He’s wearing jeans today, though, which is something she’s not seen before. He looks tired, and she wonders for a second what it is that he does before dismissing the thought out of hand. He talks briefly to the barista ( _Madge_ , she thinks, _her name is Madge_ ) before getting his coffee and moving away to a table by the window. It’s the first time he hasn’t noticed her when they’ve both been in the shop together, and she’s surprised that she’s disappointed. There’s just a slight drop in her heart, and she can only attribute it to the fact that she’s been a bit lonely this summer; her roommate’s away at her field site, and this is the one of the first summer’s she hasn’t gone home at all. With her sister away, there’s been little point. 

As she thinks this, she drains her coffee and heads over to the counter. She looks quickly at the pastries and decides on a whim to send him one. Her favorite are the cheese Danishes, but she knows that the chocolate croissants are excellent, and she likes them on days when she’s feeling gloomy. She talks briefly to Madge, pays for the croissant, and scribbles hastily on the napkin she has Madge deliver with the croissant. If she sees a humored sparkle in Madge’s eye, she ignores it.  
She bolts out the door before Madge can reach his table, so she misses when he looks up, seeking her out.

_Thank you again for the coffee. Thought this might cheer you up. –K_

\--

It goes on like this for much of the summer - barely missing each other, trading coffee and pastries back and forth. It isn’t always Katniss who buys the pastries for Peeta, or Peeta who buys the coffee for Katniss, but that’s usually how it is. While it grates on her at first to feel like she just keeps returning favors, she settles into the rhythm of it, and begins to enjoy the feeling of caring that goes along with it. They never speak in person; if they trade notes over napkins, they are short, nothing more than comments on the continued sunshine or the book she spots him reading. They settle into this easy rhythm, and she finds comfort in it, loses some of her loneliness.

\--

It’s only when the school year begins again, late September and already a crispness in the air that they find themselves at the communal table again. She’s back on her laptop, writing a reading response. She’s branching out this semester, and she’s decided to take an environmental history course. She enjoys it, the professor a uniquely unusual woman. She never would have guessed that such an earthy topic would be the woman’s area of expertise, but she excels at teaching it, and Katniss is soaking it up. If she has more reading and writing to do than usual, she doesn’t complain.

He sneaks the pastry under her elbow before she can even acknowledge his presence, and she watches with some trepidation as he walks over to the other side of the table and sits down diagonally across from her. Her bag is once again on the seat across from her, and she’s reminded of the first time she saw him, the flash of memory through her mind before she can even think about it. The memory is the only explanation she can find for why she’s suddenly hopping out of her seat and moving her bag. She’s not trying to make a blatant gesture for him to sit across from her; she does have her work to do, after all, but she feels…something. And she doesn’t mind if he takes up a bit of her space today.

She sees him raise an eyebrow, and she hopes her summer tan covers most of her flush. She isn’t even sure she wants to flirt with him, but she can only think that after an entire summer of feeding each other and trading notes like high schoolers, she might as well learn something about him besides his name. 

And he does – he gets up, moves over a seat, and sits down across from her. She smiles a little, but all of a sudden, has no words. She’s embarrassed by her silence, because she did invite him, after all, and she’s frustrated by her inability to untie her tongue and say something that isn’t awkward. Luckily for her, she supposes, he seems to be the less awkward of the two of them.

“We’re going to have to stop trading pastries back and forth – you’re going to make me fat,” He says it with a grin, so she knows he’s kidding, and she can’t help but laugh. She again realizes that he’s built solidly, but certainly isn’t in any danger of gaining too much weight from eating pastries once or twice a week; without thinking much about it, she can already guess that he swims or lifts; something to keep his frame as sturdy as it is. “Well, I suppose that would be a shame, but I certainly can’t imagine turning one down. I’m a bit obsessed with them myself,” She says, gesturing to the pastry at her elbow. She’s already eyeing the flaky pastry layers on the outside, but if they’re going to keep chatting, she doesn’t want to be fighting through the crumbs to make polite conversation.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he teases. She thinks that he must smile nearly constantly; aside from the first time she sent him a pastry, she really hasn’t seen him do anything but. And it’s a nice smile; a little lopsided, but real. His eyes light up, and she thinks he’s making a genuine effort to draw her out. “It’s good, though, to know that they’re so well-liked. I’ve been tweaking some of the recipes, but if you still like them, surely it’s working.”

Her eyes snap up, and the edgy feelings of mortification are working their way through her stomach. “Wait. Does that mean-”

“That I make them? Yeah, I own Mellark’s Bakery. We supply all the pastries here.”

“Are you telling me that I’ve been giving you your own pastries for almost two months?” Her voice is rising, an edge almost like panic (and a lot like frustration) running through it.

And he just laughs, easy and happy “Well, yeah, but I never get tired of eating them. And it was so nice, to have someone do something thoughtful for me – I certainly wasn’t going to turn down free food!”

“But – you work there! You probably sample and eat it all the time! It probably isn’t even all that fun to eat it!” She’s trying to control the feeling of desperation, like she’s done something wrong. She knows that she couldn’t have known that he makes the pastries (although it certainly explains his exit from Madge’s office, she thinks sourly), and yes, maybe it’s the thought that counts? She can’t quite make that stick in her mind, but she’s truly trying not to feel like an absolute fool, and this is the one thing her mind seems to latch onto.

“Katniss, it’s okay! I didn’t really expect anything in return for getting you coffee that day anyway. And I don’t actually eat that much of what I bake – I run a business, I can’t constantly be munching away on filo dough every second,” He’s truly trying to put her at ease – he honestly appreciated her thought, and he can see, even with just the tiniest insight into her that he’s gleaned over the months, that this is difficult for her. That she invited him to sit with her today was almost shocking to him; he figured they would keep dancing around each other for months, if not forever. 

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, takes a sip of her coffee and breathes. It’s not the end of the world. And she has been doing something nice for a stranger, someone who did something nice for her. She hates owing favors; and she paid him back. And now, she has a choice: she can decide to let her pride win, and brush him off, or she can take another breath and be gracious to this person, this man, who’s one of the first people she’s talked to outside of her program in months.

( _Oh yes, Katniss, frame it as making important acquaintances outside of school. Whatever sells it to you, sweetheart_ ) – She can practically hear her ecology professor’s scratchy voice cutting through her delusions, but she also wants, for some unspeakable reason, to let this play out.

“All right, then. Coffee next time. I’ll send you coffee next time,” She manages, giving the tiniest of smiles.

And he relaxes; he had a guess about what went through her head, knowing how he might have felt in the same situation. The woman across from him seems very wrapped up in her own world; she works steadily and constantly, diligent in her slow progress through her world. He suspects she’s highly focused, and highly introverted. He had friends like that in high school, and it was a challenge for them to ease off themselves; his limited interactions with this woman suggest that she’s similar.

They don’t chat for long; she really does feel the pull of her work, but she likes watching him smile, likes seeing the last rays of summer sun striking his hair, and she’s curious about what leads a man, or any person, in this day and age to open an independent, store-front bakery. She loves the whimsy of the idea, but she certainly questions the financial decision-making of it. Of course, she thinks, if anyone were to make it, it would be the man that makes those pastries, who set up shop in an area that is highly locally driven. And so she gets much the response she expected. 

Upon his questioning of her work, his slight flick of a hand toward her computer, she mentions her ecology professor, the long-term forestry studies she’s doing as the local forests recover from intensive logging practices. There’s a lull in the conversation that lacks the awkward silence that makes her so uncomfortable. He shifts his gaze outside, and she begins to pluck at the outer pastry shell of her Danish. After a while, he gets out his book, and she goes back to work, and they carry on in companionable silence.

When he gets up to leave, he glances at her with a smile and tells her to have a good rest of her day. She smiles back, and she’s surprised, as she watches him walk out the door, to find that she not only enjoyed his company, but feels lonely in his absence.

\--

The next time she’s there, she specifically tells herself she’s not looking for him, not waiting to catch a glimpse of his distinctive hair, but she’s fidgety as she stands in line, and as she rifles through her wallet for her card, she can tell that Madge is stifling a grin at her expense. Katniss wants to snap at her, but Madge is as circumspect as they come, and she has now long tolerated Katniss herself, as well as her dynamic with Peeta, and again, Katniss forces herself to take a breath and ignore the nagging part of her brain that wants to wipe the smile off of Madge’s face. She takes her coffee and tries not to stomp to a table, where she settles down in a huff and tries to start her work.

She makes a fair amount of progress before she looks up and sees him across the room from her. He offers a wave and a little smile, but goes back to his book quickly. She frowns and turns back to her own work, but feels disgruntled. It’s not that she wants to be interrupted, she thinks, but this is the first time in months that they’ve actually had no interaction. Was she too quiet when they finally talked? She sighs. Her personal life isn’t exactly in shambles, but her move to grad school has left her with few close friends. She wishes she were more outgoing, but aside from drinks with some of her cohort, she really doesn’t get out much. And she knows, ultimately, that she’s a tough nut to crack; it takes persistence, and most people aren’t willing to put up with it.

She looks back at him briefly, to see him looking in her direction again; she quickly averts her eyes, feeling caught in the act. She should be doing her work, but he has something magnetic about him, and it makes it increasingly difficult for her to concentrate when she’s in his orbit. She looks at her work and decides she’s either going to the library, or going home (probably home, she thinks. The library smells like an airport) to do a little more work, and then she’s calling it quits for the day. She slowly packs up her things, drinks the dregs of her coffee and waves at Madge on the way out. She tries not to look back, but she glances through the large windows on her way out, hoping to catch a last glimpse of him. Sure enough, he’s watching her as she leaves, and she offers a small wave to him before she walks to her bus stop.

\--

She’s out with her roommate and another grad student from the forestry department, in a different part of town, when she sees it. They’ve been to two different bookstores today, mostly used (and often strange. She thinks of the bookstore with the cats, and wonders why anyone keeps cats, let alone in a bookstore), and after a while of looking through various botany and gardening book, she picked up a book on bonsai gardening. She’s been thinking about trying to develop a hobby outside of school, and bonsai always interested her.

It’s as they’re walking past a knitting store that she sees the bright, clear lettering of the storefront and realizes where she is. She all but stops in her tracks, realizing she found the bakery without even trying. Her two companions look back at her in confusion, and then at the storefront.

“Oh, Mellark’s! Katniss, you’re still newish here, have you tried it?” Her roommate has been living here for longer than she has, and as an avid foodie, she’s spotted many of the trendy food spots.

Katniss just shakes her head, before responding, “No. Um, well, I’ve had their pastries at the coffee shop, you know, the one I really like? But I’ve never been in.” If her voice is unusually quiet, nobody notices, because her friends have already started to pull her towards the bakery doors. They’re classic modern doors, in an older brick building. Like so many of the newer businesses in this part of town, they’ve tried to maintain the structure of the older building and incorporate it into their existing design plan. She has a sudden new-found respect for Peeta’s design choices, although the mere thought of his name sends a flutter through her veins that she can neither control nor entirely explain.

The inside of the shop combines elements of the quirkiest coffee shops with those of very streamlined businesses; the walls are a muted white, and shelves of books line one wall of the store; they’re covered in books, but she can already see without approaching it that they don’t just house the standard John Grisham and Dean Koontz fair. They’re covered in older and modern sci-fi and fantasy books, classics with bent spines, and newer books, including the most recent National Book Award winner. She sees more pedestrian works among these, and feels some relief that it isn’t entirely highbrow. She’s almost certain she sees a copy of Harry Potter on the shelf, and she smiles. 

There are comfortable chairs, as well as tables that line the window of the shop, but as a whole, it’s left open. It’s not a large front space, which she assumes makes more room for the kitchen housed in the back. As she’s been eyeing the rest of the space, she realizes she’s entirely neglected the main purpose of the building; it has an extensive display case, and unlike the one at the coffee shop, it includes more than just pastries. There’s a frozen case that apparently contains house-made gelato in flavors of basil, strawberry, lavender, and vanilla; there are macarons (“All the rage,” her roommate assures her), individual crème brulées, fruit tarts, and some of the most exquisite-looking cakes she’s ever seen. The intricate frosting on the cakes belies an expert hand, and she suddenly recalls the deftness with which he uses his hands; she’s certain he’s the one responsible for the elegance of the spread here. 

Next to the cash register she finds whole bean coffee from the coffee shop they both frequent, and finds comfort in the symbiotic relationship the two businesses must have with each other. They’re almost all the way across town from each other, which makes it ideal for them to sell each other’s goods. There’s also a display case with plate-sized cookies, and savory tarts and handpies. She’s never seen the croissant au fromage at the coffee shop, and she’s hungry enough that it sounds like a perfect snack. 

She reaches the cash register and smiles, because there he is, looking somewhat taken aback, although smiling all the same.

“What brings you over here, today?” He asks, as he pulls the croissant out for her. “Would you like it warmed up?” He gestures with the tongs toward the croissant.

“Oh, no thank you, as it is will be fine. And we’re just wandering around. It was sort of surreal to find this today – I’m almost never in this part of town, so I’ve never seen much of this side.” She looks down and smiles as he gives her the card back. Yes, his fingers have exactly the dexterity she imagined that they do, and the thoughts of those fingers unexpectedly send a shiver through her.

She looks up again, embarrassed at the sudden direction her thoughts have gone in. “And what about you? What brings you over to the university side?”

“Well, I talk to Madge quite frequently about orders, and when I started making connections with her and the shop, I also wanted to do something here. We thought it would be nice if we could sell my pastries over there and her coffee here, to make some of the transit a bit easier on people. Truth be told, I didn’t really drink coffee until I started working with Madge, and now I’m hooked. And I like having a day off, now and then, and it’s easier to be where I’m not recognized. You’d be surprised how many people want baking advice from me!” He’s joking, she thinks, but she can imagine that people would approach him for a far different reason than that, although she understands pretense well enough to respect those people for trying.

Rather than latching on to that particular train of thought again, she laughs, “You weren’t a coffee drinker? Aren’t bakers renowned for getting up at three in the morning?”

He smiles and laughs, “Well, yes. But if you’ve been doing it since you were fifteen and in high school, and now you just have to do this until three in the afternoon, it’s not so bad.”

She smiles, “Well, I’m sure it’s nice to have coffee to help, now, isn’t it?” She realizes that she’s been talking with him now for several minutes, and that her friends still haven’t ordered. They’re looking at her with interest, and she hopes it’s only because she somehow knows the whiz kid baker, and not because this is more than she said to them in months at a time when she first met them. “Sorry, I should let you get back to work. Thank you so much!”

He ducks his head and smiles at her abrupt turn, and goes back to helping the rest of the customers now lining up to the counter. If he notices her friends nudging her and whispering eagerly to her, or notices her blush at all, he tries not to attribute it to anything, and certainly not to the increasing desire he has to know this woman better.

\--

The leaves are falling, bright spots on the pavement the next few times they see each other. She’s becoming more and more comfortable each time she sees him, conversation coming easier to both of them. She’s told him more about her research, about how she spent two weeks wandering through forests this summer in between TA-ing. She talks about the quiet susurration of the pine needles under her boots, the whisper of wind in the trees, and the rain falling, dropping lightly onto her jacket as she walked through. 

Most people find very little interest in her research, but he is captivated, watching her with bright eyes, and she feels warmth spread through her veins, the kind of contentedness of finding someone willing to listen and sit with her. She is happy, she realizes, and it has nothing to do with coffee or the satisfaction of having completed her work; instead, it has everything to do with comfortable companionship, and the slip of joy through her veins when she sees him.

And she asks about Mellark’s, wanting to know more about his business. He started out on the east coast, she realizes; his parents owned a bakery there, and he’s been at this business for years. He moved out west to get away from his mother, mostly, but also because he’s always been enraptured with the mountains. He studied business at the university, but he took classes in environmental education, and she feels a rush of warmth realizing that he is as competent in the outdoors as she is, if in different ways.

It’s as the cool air starts whisking through the air outside that they find themselves increasingly spending time at the coffee shop together, making plans to see each other rather than running into each other. They choose the small tables, now, and avoid the communal table. She’ll still do work, of course, and he keeps bringing hefty books to read, but now they do this together. They keep each other company, their knees bumping under the table. The first time this happens, a small feeling of panic jolts through her, chased quickly by a spark of heat. She blushes, ducks her head, and taps away on her keys determinedly. He grins, a there-and-gone smile, and she doesn’t see it.

The days and weeks slip by, and as the leaves slowly degrade in the streets and the rain progressively gets colder and more persistent, they are often by each other’s side. And then, it changes again.

\--

There’s a surprising cold snap in early winter, and while she’s no stranger to the cold and the damp, she’s feeling a bit bulkier than usual today. She’s wearing a nice scarf, but also more layers than usual over her regular clothes. She makes sure to put on two pairs of socks before her rain boots, because as nice as it is that her feet are dry, they’re never warm in her wellies. She double-checks her house before she walks out, locking up and heading for the bus stop.

They’ve arranged to meet at the coffee shop today, but when she gets outside and realizes that the sleet has turned to snow, she wonders if they should reschedule. She vacillates for a minute before deciding to go anyway. It’s close to finals, and between her schoolwork and her TA work, she’s been around less lately. She’s had to spend more time in office hours to make sure her students make it to the end of the semester okay, and once she’s in her office, she often ends up brewing coffee and huddling up there for hours. They’ve been texting back and forth, Peeta and she, but she’s anxious to see him after several weeks apart.

It’s this realization, this particular way of thinking about it that strikes her abruptly as she’s settling onto the bus. She’s never anxious to see anyone, except maybe her sister, and she’s certainly never been anxious to see a man before. 

She sits on the bus, fighting an internal battle; she’s still excited to see him, of course. She misses his company, but this very realization makes her squirm with a sense of discomfort. She doesn’t miss the company of her close friends among her cohort, and maybe it’s because she sees them so often, but even over the summer, when they split apart, she didn’t feel particularly sad about saying good-bye. And here she is, two or three weeks without having seen Peeta, and she’s both lonely and sad, and these feelings draw her up short, make her breath catch and her stomach turn.

She’s never been one for overthinking things, but she finds herself analyzing these feelings to such an extent that she nearly misses her bus stop. 

She finds herself still fussing over it when she sees him in the window, and when she sees him, her heart lurches, confirming what she’d only begun to wonder about in the last fifteen minutes.

 _Maybe she appreciates his company for more than friendly reasons_.

\--

She waves at him when she enters, but she goes right to the counter, fidgeting with her wallet and fussing in her purse. Madge catches her eye and smiles, her face open and curious at Katniss’ discomfort. Katniss brushes aside her concern with a smile, ordering her usual coffee. She forgoes a sweet, her eyes shifting toward him, her stomach lurching again at her realization, and she realizes that honestly, she’s suddenly quite nervous, and yes, very uncomfortable. 

She hasn’t felt uncomfortable around him in almost a year, and it strikes her as ironic that she has the same desire to avoid him now that she did then. 

All the same, there’s no way out of it now, so with a hearty swill of her coffee and a deep breath, she wanders over to join him. 

In spite of her nervousness (and she thinks he notices, but he’s polite enough to let it pass without comment), she slips into the ease of their conversation without difficulty. It reassures her, that her sudden realization doesn’t affect their ability to be comfortable with each other. They talk about the seasonal pastries and tarts he makes, her students (she’s got one very promising honors student, and she’s trying to convince her to stay the summer and work with her), and the sudden cold weather. It’s often grey this time of year, but the snow is exciting, although somewhat troubling. She brings up a funny video she saw several years ago about what northwesterners say when it snows, and they share a laugh.

It’s easy, and then suddenly, she looks outside, and it’s not. There’s suddenly quite a lot of snow coming down, and she isn’t the only one looking dismayed. She sees Madge watching the clock and the snow with a frown on her face; Katniss still doesn’t know Madge incredibly well, but she knows that she lives on the opposite side of town, and unless she has a car, she’s going to struggle to get home.

Katniss, for that matter, might struggle to get home. 

She interrupts him as he says something about nor’-easters. She gestures out the window “Peeta, I’m so sorry to leave early, but I’m not sure how much longer the buses are going to be running.”

He turns and his eyebrows raise, an incredulous look on his face. “Shit. I’m going to have to take the bus to the other side of town – I hope it’s still running that far.” He gets out his phone, flipping through apps until he reaches one that checks bus routes. “Oh fuck, they’ve already stopped running.” He looks up at her, dismay clear in his eyes.

It’s not much of an internal battle for her, really; she’s certainly not going to abandon him here, however uncomfortable she might feel inviting him to her apartment. She mostly hopes she remembered to put her bras away, but she figures that bras compared to being stuck on the wrong side of town with no transportation is probably an insignificant trade-off. She reaches for her own phone to make sure they buses are still running from the coffee shop to her apartment, and while they’re delayed, it looks like they’ll be able to catch it.

“Well, it’s possible that they’ll get stuck between now and when they finally arrive, but they’re still running to University. You can just come crash with me.” She hopes her voice is more sure than she is, but she can’t tell for sure.

“Oh, Katniss, I couldn’t intrude, especially on short notice.” He objects, she notices, but not particularly vehemently. She knows he could catch a ride with Madge (they live close together, she found out), but he doesn’t offer. 

She takes a breath, trying to ignore the implications of that, and says “Peeta, you can’t stay here, obviously. It’s not that far, you can stay on the couch over night if you need to. We don’t exactly have tons of room, but Jo might be out anyway, and even if she isn’t, it’ll be fine. Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

Her own insistence seems to settle it for him, and when he smiles at her, they both grab their coats and begin bundling up. Once he’s ready, he jogs over to Madge. They chat for a minute, and Madge glances up at one point with a funny smile on her face when she looks at Katniss. Katniss thinks her face burns, but she assumes it’s just because she’s wearing so many layers inside.

“Sorry, I just wanted to make sure Madge drove to work today.” He’s back by her side now, his own face flushed, and a grin spreading his cheeks wide. “You ready?” He asks. She nods, and he steps behind her, his hand on the curve of her back, and she’s certain now that her face is flushing and it has nothing to do with her layers.

\--

They wait at the bus stop for longer than she expects, and if they’re silly and childish, shoving each other, seeing who can catch snowflakes on their tongues, and lobbing snowballs at each other, it’s only because it snows so infrequently here. By the time the bus pulls up, chains on the tires, they’re both flushed and bright-eyed from chasing each other around and laughing.

It’s a slow ride to her apartment, and she finds she’s tired, lulled by the slow rocking of the bus. She thinks about leaning her head against his shoulder, but it’s only a short ride to the University and her stop, and she doesn’t want to ride the bus only to have to catch another one back because she fell asleep. 

She looks over at him; his face is turned away from her, eyes watching the white landscape passing by. It’s quite a storm, tree boughs sinking under the weight of the heavy snow. The snow makes even the seedier parts of the district look bright and shining, and she’s struck by how charming a scene it is right now. She smiles, and when he turns back to her, he’s smiling too, eyes lit up and happy. It’s an adventure, she thinks, and she unthinkingly reaches for his hand with her own mittened one. She sees the surprise on his face, but he grips her mitten in his gloved hand, and smiles wider. She knows she’s blushing again, and she ducks her head, still smiling.

They ride like that for another couple of minutes before she pulls the bell, signaling the bus to stop. It’s still a steep walk to her apartment, but there isn’t another good stop, and she’d rather get off here than worry about trying to backtrack. They hustle off the bus, his hand at her back again, and she thinks about how easy it is for him to do that, and how surprisingly comfortable she is with the familiarity. It’s not that she hasn’t known him for a long time; it’s just that it’s personal, intimate, and she’s never been excited about that, but now – well, now she’s a little bit giddy, and it has nothing to do with the unexpected snow storm.

They slip and slide up the hill to her apartment; the concrete underneath the snow is still warm from the day before, and the slush underneath the snow is hidden and treacherous. By the time they make it up the hill, they’re both breathless from laughter again, each one pushing and pulling the other up the hill, trying to race, and only barely succeeding in not sliding back feet-first. She fusses with her keys, trying to find the right one, before jiggling the door open. It swells in the humidity, and while one could say that it’s humid all the time, it gets harder to open during major storms like this. 

Finally swinging the door open, she takes a second to make sure the apartment is in decent shape before moving aside. She thinks about what he must see – the Ansel Adams prints on the walls, the old couch, flannels and boots tossed around it. Neither she nor Jo are particularly messy, but neither of them is a queen of neatness, either. There are always a few cereal bowls or mugs in the sink, and the combined number of jackets they own are often scattered around the house. Still, it’s cozy, the heat turned up just right, the worn carpet soaking up the drips from their coats (and her hair).

She watches him look, watches as he smiles at the picture of her mother and sister, at the beer bottles on the counter. He turns back to her and grins “It’s cozy. I like it.” She smiles back, relieved that he isn’t uncomfortable in her space. She knows she invited him, and she feels like she knows him well enough to not worry about his pretentions, but she always finds it nerve-wracking letting someone new into her space.

\--

She makes them hot chocolate, gets them both dry socks, and they settle down to read on her couch. She’s got a short book to read for one of her term papers, and she busies herself with sticky notes and pen and paper. He’s reading some thick tome of a book again, and she’s long since stopped asking for titles since she has so little time to read for fun.

She glances up to see him looking at her with bemusement. “What?” she asks.

“Nothing. I’ve just never seen anyone use so many different ways of taking notes.” His eyes crinkle with amusement, and she scowls at him, thinks about chucking the book at his head, and stops herself.

“It’s a library book. I can’t very well take notes in the margins, can I?” She asks in response.

“Well, no, I just. I never took particularly thorough notes on the reading I did in college,” he ruffles his hair bashfully, a slight look of embarrassment crossing his face.

She laughs at this. “I didn’t either. It’s only now that I’m consistently reading things I’m interested in that I read as carefully as I do. I don’t know, I always wonder if I’ll end up teaching a class where I want to use the material, and if that’s the case, I want to have good notes on it for at least one read through. But then, I still skim stuff if I’m in a hurry or it’s not interesting,” she shrugs. “This class has almost nothing to do with my actual ecology major, but it would be awesome to have some sort of combination of ecology and social history.”

He smiles at her and nods. “It seems like you’ve got it all figured out – professor of ecology, with another hat somewhere else.” She shrugs again, fighting discomfort at her own ambition. 

“I still feel like I’d rather spend time in the woods than with students, but this class has definitely made me think more about that. I dunno. I guess I’ll see where it goes.” She frowns a bit, then turns back to her book. She thinks he keeps watching her, but she tries to focus on her book, ignoring the quizzical look on his face.

\--

It’s hours later that she wakes up, still on the couch. She’s managed to wedge herself between his chest and the couch cushion, and the realization sends a spark of desire through her, followed by an overwhelming urge to panic. She rolls over as carefully as possible until she’s facing his chest. He’s still asleep, and she has to say that she is incredibly comfortable, in spite of how pressed for room she is. He is like a furnace, giving off enough warmth to keep her pleasantly warm in spite of how chilly the room has gotten.

Her curiosity overtakes her, and she lifts a hand to his chest. The sweater he’s wearing is incredibly soft, and she traces his heartbeat underneath it. His heart beats slow and steady, lulled by sleep and comfort. She thinks the sound is comforting, and snuggles closer, cocooning herself back in his warmth. She feels, rather than sees his own calloused hand wrap around hers and bring it to his lips. He kisses her fingertips and puts her hand back where it rested on his chest.

She looks up at him, her own heart suddenly beating rapidly. His eyes are barely open, looking down at her, and she recognizes the look in them as a lazy kind of interest. She sucks in a breath, trying to calm her nerves, and slowly reaches up, twining her fingers in his hair and bringing his face down to hers. 

Their lips are both dry and chapped, and they just barely brush in passing, but it is more than enough to send a jolt like lightning through her body. If she was ready to go back to sleep a moment ago, she is a live wire now, radiating curiosity and desire. She’s hesitant, but she brings their lips back together, parting them just briefly to get a taste of him. He’s like spun sugar – sweet and overwhelming, and all she wants is more, more, more. He seems to feel the same, because before she can think about it, his lips are parting, and they are tasting, teasing, licking their way into each others’ mouths, frenzied in a way that is entirely different from what it was like a moment ago. 

She had no idea that she even wanted this until this moment, when prior to this morning, she hadn’t even thought about him in much more than a passing fashion.

And yet, here they are, twining around each other, bringing each other close together, hips rocking in a way that makes her moan into his mouth, makes her move her mouth to his neck, nipping and soothing in alternate motions, leaving them both gasping for air. She can feel herself getting wet, slick with want, and the hardness she feels against her does nothing to mitigate that feeling. Her breath is coming short, as is his, and she takes a moment to pull back, look into his eyes. 

They are crystal clear, intent on her, and hungry. She grins, then sobers. “Are you okay with this?”

His face sharpens, seriousness edging through the enjoyment in his face. “Yeah. Are you?”

She nods, her hair coming loose from its plait, and his eyes light up again. He reaches for her hair and brings her lips back down to his, and they ease back into a rhythm. She toys with his hair until he snakes a hand under her shirt, hand splayed over her belly, fingers light against her skin. She gasps, and he pulls back, checking in with her. She nods frantically, and he moves his hand up, over the fabric of her bra. His foot toys with the hem of her pants, dragging it upwards, and she moans again, the feeling of him all over her overwhelming and excruciatingly good all at once. He grins against her mouth and pulls down the cup of her bra, getting at the sensitive skin underneath. Her eyes roll back in her head at the feel of his deft hands on her nipple, and all she can think about is the feeling of his hands caressing her skin and the goosebumps rolling across her flesh.

He feels her shiver underneath him and pauses. “Do you have a blanket or something?”

She pulls back and looks around. Normally there are a bunch of throw blankets on the back of the couch, but as cold as it’s been (and she and Jo hate having the heat up high at night), they’ve all been moved to their rooms. She looks at him surreptitiously. “They’re in my room.”

He hesitates, then grins, moves them up to sitting, and makes to pick her up under her legs. “As long as it’s okay?” He asks, before he moves.

She nods, her desire for him, for _this_ unchecked by the discomfort in allowing him into her room. The change in position has, if anything, made their intentions more clear, heat bleeding through denim. At her assent, he picks her up under the legs. She wraps them around his waist, and goes back to kissing him, licking until she tastes him.

\--

It’s abrupt, she knows; she’s slept with other guys before, but only after dating them for a while. She knows that Jo is comfortable sleeping with guys right away, but that’s never been her, and yet – here they are. She guesses they’ve known each other for a while, even if they haven’t been dating. She’s certainly comfortable with him, and more than comfortable with what they’re doing now. His nose is brushing hers, and his head is dipping down to lick the hollow between her collarbone, and all she can think is how good it feels, the relief of having this person, this man in her bed, reciprocating her affection (affection she didn’t even think about until that morning). Her breath is coming short, and she can feel the heat spreading from her center outwards, the longing for friction driving her hips upwards toward his.

They connect, and his eyes snap open, a look of amusement and lust crossing his face as he looks down at her. He grins, then ducks his head down to her lips, sliding his tongue along hers as he rocks his hips back down into hers. She groans into his mouth, unable to suppress her pleasure at having them so close together again. She snakes her hands down to the hem of his shirt, gently tugging on it until he pulls away so she can pull it over his head. Just like she figured, he’s solid, but there’s a trimness to his body that she wants to admire. He’s watching her, and while all she wants to do is flip him and just look her full, she meets his eyes instead, meets the smile there, and flushes with what she can only describe as lust-addled happiness. She is simultaneously ridiculously turned on, and totally secure and comforted by turns, and while the combination of emotions is weird, she also can’t help but feel satisfied with everything that’s led her to this point.

She reaches up to tug him back down to her, but he’s pulling back, unzipping her fleece and tugging up her shirt and scarf, tangling it all in her hair and earrings, and she’s laughing as she tries to free herself from the mess of her clothing. As soon as she can see him, she grins, takes out her earrings, and reaches for him again, and this time, he comes back down to her, free hand skimming up her sides and across her breasts. She shudders underneath him, her hips rocking against his again, and it’s all the signal he needs – still, he separates them to ask, and she responds by reaching behind her to unhook her bra, plucking it away from her sternum and tossing it to the floor. 

He sits back, looking at her, his eyes wide. She wants to feel self-conscious, but the hungry look in his eye makes her let him look his fill. She’ll get her turn to do it to him, and she feels proud of the look on his face. Finally, he drops back down, his chest rubbing against her breasts in a way that builds the fire burning in her body. If she was cold before, she’s alight with sensation and warmth now, and it is an incredible feeling. 

In between kisses, he runs his thumbs across her nipples, and she arches her back into his touch. She can feel herself getting wetter as he continues to touch her, and suddenly, all she wants is for him to finger her, fuck her slowly against the bed until she comes. She grabs his hands, twining their fingers together, before separating them and grabbing for his belt loops. She wants to yank him closer and shove him away all at once, but knows she has to let up if he’s going to get his pants off. He gets the message and shucks them off while she works at the button of her own jeans. She strips her clothing off, and stops to look at him once he’s gotten his pants and boxers off. She takes him in and feels the smile spread across her face. She meets his eyes, and sees the desire written bold across his face, and reaches for him again, drawing him down beside her. He reaches for her, drawing his fingers down her body until they come to the apex of her thighs. 

She suddenly desperately wants him all over her, wants him to touch her and fuck her and wrap himself around her. She can’t even decide which she wants first, but as he slides his fingers through her wetness along her clit, she sighs, appreciating the movements of his fingers. He looks up at her, waiting for her approval, and she nods, but grasps his hand in hers to show him what she wants. She guides him, watching him watch her; his pupils are blown, grew even wider when she gripped his hand, and now her hips are rocking down to meet his fingers, and she lets go, rubbing one breast with a restless hand.

He takes to his task quickly, urging her along, slipping a finger inside her, and slowly adding pressure to her clit as she starts to top out. He watches her the whole way through, doesn’t stop circling her clit until her gasps have stopped and her eyes are open again. She’s tingling all the way down to her fingertips, one of the best orgasms she’s had in a while, and when the effervescence has left her veins, she looks down at him, grinning, to see him staring back at her with a look of delight on his face. It’s all she needs to reach for him, rolling them both over until she’s sitting on his stomach, the slickness of her sliding across him, leaving a mess. She wrinkles her nose, but watches him. His gaze bounces from her breasts to her face and stays there; she leans over him, her messy hair getting in the way as she kisses him, hair stuck to their lips, and his cock twitching against the back of her leg. 

It’s that feeling that has her reaching for her bedside drawer and rifling for a condom. She’d rather they could go without, but truly, she can’t quite reconcile herself to how sudden this whole thing is, and while she’s enjoying it immensely, she knows it would be better to be really safe. So she rips the wrapper and rolls it onto his cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter closed as she grips him and pinches the tip. She leans over him to clutch at his hands, and slowly sinks her way until she’s full of him. She takes a minute to settle, watches the satisfaction flash over his face, and slowly rocks her way forward. She knows instantly that she’ll be able to get off that way, but wants to get him off too, and thinks better of it. 

She slowly eases off of him before sinking back down, and picks up a steady rhythm, his hips working in tandem with hers. He lets go of her hands after a while to get his fingers between them and back on her clit, making sure she’s going to come again. She’s not sure she can, but the ache of him inside her, the mere thought of him inside her seems to be driving her toward a climax, and combined with his touch, she’s suddenly certain she can. She starts to clench on him, getting him closer to his own end, and he’s rubbing tighter circles on her clit, and suddenly the pressure is so much, and she’s gone, clenching on him frenetically until he groans, his back snapping and hips lingering against hers, and she’s collapsing on him, both of them breathing hard as the ride it out.

When the last of the jolts work their way through their systems, she slowly opens her eyes to see him looking at her in something like awe. She’s always hated that idea, that men could be worshipful of her for something that comes naturally, but the look on his face is frankly beautiful and overwhelming, and she tucks her head into his neck to avoid it. She slowly slips off of him, letting him deal with the condom and running to the bathroom to clean up. When she gets back, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his socks still on, and she worries that he’s about to leave.

“I don’t want to intrude. I, uh, don’t know if you like sharing beds, or if you like sleeping alone, and I don’t want to make anything awkward for you, so – ”

“Stay. Please stay.” She feels very bare all of a sudden, very vulnerable. It’s a strange feeling after what they’ve just done, but he’s right, it is a little awkward. They know a reasonable amount about each other, but it’s not exactly standard post-date sex, so it makes sense that he’d be uncertain. She’s uncertain too – about why this is happening, and if it’s okay, but the one thing she’s not uncertain about is her strong and abiding desire to have him stay with her, curl around her, and help keep each other warm.

He holds out his hand, and it’s a cliché, but she steps toward him, lets her arms drop from where they were protecting her middle, and she takes his hand, lets him pull her into her own bed, cover them with her covers, and lull her to sleep. Outside, the snow continues to fall, quieting the world around them and blanketing it in white. 

\--

The sky is still grey when she wakes up, and it takes her a moment to get past the startling reality of someone else in the bed with her. She soon realizes she’s curled up against his bare chest, that his arm is cradling her to his form, and that she’s slept unreasonably well. She’s warm and comfortable, and she’s struck again by the weird feeling of security that radiates from an otherwise completely strange situation. She’s tempted to stay in bed and savor it, but she figures she should get up and try to make some breakfast, or at the very least, make coffee. She slips out from under his arm, trying not to disturb him, grabs a bulky sweatshirt, pajamas, and wool socks, and makes her way into the kitchen. Jo still doesn’t appear to be home, and she’s grateful that they have the place to themselves, with no third degree from outside parties. There’s a tenuous feeling to the air around her, and she wants to preserve every ounce of the comfort she felt in her sleep, and the satisfaction she felt earlier.

She’s just heating water for the French press when he wanders out of her room, his hair wild and the flannel pants she found for him tucked into his socks. It’s such an unusual picture that she almost giggles when she sees him, and knows she must be nervous, because it is exceedingly unlike her to giggle. He makes a face at her and wanders toward her.

“I was going to make some breakfast, if that sounds good to you.” She is a little weirded out by the prospect of making breakfast for a baker, of all things, but it’s her damn house, and she’s feels like she ought to at least be hospitable, beyond the only reasonable offer of coffee.

He looks at her and grins, before saying “You want me to make you pancakes? You totally want me to make you pancakes.” Her face lights up before he’s even done, and there’s a moment of mutual delight between them. He starts puttering through her kitchen, and she calls out the location of ingredients to him while she makes the coffee. She pours it into a mug for him with just a touch of cream, before pouring herself a mug as well. She sits down at the table, before jumping back up and asking if he’d like help. He shoos her away before asking where the chocolate chips are and if he can use a banana. She looks at him skeptically before gesturing to both. 

It’s quiet while he’s mixing everything up, but there’s very little awkwardness in the air. If anything, she can imagine them being a normal couple, with a normal weekend routine. It’s weird, but it’s also strangely soothing, and she wants to take this moment, capture it, and hold on to it. He seems to feel the same way. Soon he’s humming under his breath, and while the melody isn’t one she’s used to, she’s soon singing harmony over it, and she’s hiding a smile behind her hand when he looks at her. It’s comfortable, and it’s new, and it’s everything at once, but she’s _happy_ , honest to god, and it’s an ebullient feeling that washes over her.

He slowly ladles the batter into the pan, and she has the sudden urge to come watch over his shoulder, and rather than questioning it to death like she normally might, she does it, slipping one hand onto his back and eyeing the pancakes with glee. He leans back against her, ever so slightly, and Christ, it’s so normal she almost doesn’t know what to do. It’s easy, is the thing that she’s not used to, but she’s weirdly relieved that everything is fine, everything is good and intimate, and so far not at all weird.

They eat the pancakes quietly, talking about this and that, and watching the snow fall down around them. She’s not really sure how to handle everything – he can’t leave yet, because the buses still aren’t running. She wants him to stay, anyway, to preserve the surreality of this moment. At some point, she supposes, they’ll have to face the rest of the world, but she doesn’t want to do it now, doesn’t really want to do it ever. She’s sure they could proceed from here, go date, be a couple, or silently slip apart and preserve memories of a special time. She doesn’t want the latter, she knows that, but talking about and reaching the former sounds excruciating, and she doesn’t really want to deal with that either.

It’s later, when they’re back on the couch and her feet are in his lap that she ventures the question: “What happens next?” She looks at him apprehensively, lacing her fingers together in her lap to keep from fidgeting. He’s rubbing her feet through her socks, and he runs a hand through his messy hair before he looks at her.

“What do you want to happen?”

She looks at him helplessly, hoping he would be the one to take the plunge. A smile flits across his face, just as easily a trick of the light as something real, then opens his mouth, closes it again, and smiles wryly. 

“Well, I’ll do what you want, I suppose, but if it were entirely up to me – I, uh, like you. Kind of a lot. And I maybe hadn’t expected this to happen - ” he gestures bemusedly between them, “but I’m definitely not sorry that it did. I don’t know if you want to go on actual dates, or how it really works when you do the whole sex thing first, but I want to keep seeing you. And, um, I’m not exactly going to say no to the sex part, either.” He grins at her, his eyes flitting from her feet to her face.

She feels the grin stretching the corners of her face, and she wants to launch herself at him, gratitude in every part of her, right down to her bones. She already knew he was the more talkative of the two of them, and she’s ecstatic that he’s handled the worst of it, been the brave one of the two of them. “I’d like that,” is what she says in response.

The two of them grin at each other like fools for a little while longer, talking about other things before bashfully looking at each other again. She feels silly for being so excited, so happy, but she can’t help but appreciate the way this man has eased himself into her life, created this amazing time for them. The weirdness won’t go away, she imagines, but they’ve created this unique time out of time for themselves, and she thinks it will get them far.

The stay like that, curled up in each other, and outside, the snow slowly tapers off, leaving a quiet city, bathed and blanketed in white.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for AUs, and an "obligatory AUs I really want" post went around tumblr around two months ago, and this has been percolating ever since. It turned out to be much more of a behemoth than I expected, but there you have it. Snaps to anyone who can guess the conglomeration of coffee shops this one is based on, and for anyone who has any guesses about my place headcanon for this fic.


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